


Take Your Empty Bones And Rest

by CrunchyWrites



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-compliant Death, Gen, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrunchyWrites/pseuds/CrunchyWrites
Summary: Deep beneath the earth, Molly slumbers.





	Take Your Empty Bones And Rest

**Author's Note:**

> A small drabble that I've been meaning to put to paper for a month or so. Unbeta'd. Enjoy x

Deep beneath the earth, Molly slumbers.

The soil wraps him in an embrace like the arms of a lover, caressing his skin and holding him close and tight to its cold, frozen chest. The bones of winter have been settled in this land for weeks now, reaching fingers of frost through the skin of the earth and staining the ground white and grey. Molly doesn’t see as, far above him, the clouds open in a silent, gentle flurry of snow. It drifts downward towards the small huddle of figures with a sigh, spiralling in a short-lived dance before it touches the frost and is held fast. There is no warmth in this land. The figures that stamp and shuffle and burrow further down into their clothes are warm, yes, but barely. Their blood is warm. Their muscles are still unfrozen.

Inside their chests, their hearts turn to snow, and ice, and aching, freezing cold as they hang a vibrant coat from a short staff.

Molly sees none of this.

Molly is as cold as the earth. Molly’s blood is ice in his veins, still and silent and held in place as though frozen. There is no breath in his lungs, no spark in his body. There is no magic. There is no life.

Meters above Molly’s head, hot tears melt the frost and snow and trickle into the earth. They do not make it very far before they too are frozen, but more tears quickly follow, tracing the path of their siblings. They sink through the soil and the dirt, tiny flashes of warmth in the dark, frozen landscape beneath the snow. One by one they move further and further still into the depths of the earth, down towards where Molly lies encased by his ridiculous, gaudy tapestry. They soak into the fine weave of it, chasing along threads of silver, and gold, and blue.

With a kiss, they press their last, lingering scraps of warmth to Molly’s skin.

Deep beneath the earth, Molly slumbers. The snow settles on the land around him, consuming colour and warmth alike. A spell is pressed into the earth, only for a moment. It calls to the plants that sleep. It calls to the roots that wait. It calls them, and gathers them, and pulls them to Molly.

Molly’s blood is ice, and his bones are frozen. There is no breath in his lungs, no spark in his body.

The plants awaken. They move through the earth sluggishly, drawing on what little energy they have.

Ahead of them, Molly’s body starts to warm.

In time, in hours, in days, the plants reach Molly. They push aside the arms of the earth with careful, age-slowed motions, and take him instead into their arms. They wrap him in roots, cocoon him in leaves, and fungus, and whatever they can possibly produce. They find the warm humming inside him and take it into themselves, preserve it and continue it and feed it back into Molly.

Deep beneath the earth, Molly slumbers in a cocoon of roots. His blood is slow, and sluggish, but it moves. There is breath in his lungs, shallow and uncertain. There is a spark to his body, a faded ember of life.

Deep beneath the earth, the roots hold him and adore him. The spark grows. The reaches of winter cannot touch him here.

Deep beneath the earth, Molly opens his eyes.


End file.
